To All the Boys I've Loved Before (29 page)

Haltingly, I say, “I-I didn’t know that. I used to like going to your house, because your mom was so nice to me.”

“She really liked you,” Genevieve says.

I screw up all my courage and I ask, “So why did you stop being friends with me?”

Genevieve narrows her eyes at me. “You really don’t know?”

“No.”

“You kissed Peter that day at my house in seventh grade. You knew I liked him, but you kissed him anyway.” I recoil, and she continues. “I always knew your goody-goody act
was fake. It’s no wonder you and my cousin are BFFs now. Although at least Chris owns her sluttiness. She doesn’t put on an act.”

My whole body goes rigid. “What are you talking about?”

She laughs, and it’s chilling how happy she sounds. That’s when I know I’m already dead. I brace myself for whatever mean thing will come out of her mouth, but even still I’m not ready for what comes next.

“I’m talking about how you and Peter had full-on sex in the hot tub last night.”

My mind goes completely blank. I might even black out for a second. I can feel myself sway on my feet. Somebody come quick with the smelling salts; I’m about to faint.

My head is swimming. “Who told you that?” I choke out. “Who said that?”

Genevieve tilts her head to the side. “Everybody?”

“But—but we
didn’t
—”

“I’m sorry, but I think it’s absolutely disgusting. I mean, sex in a hot tub—a
public
hot tub—is just . . .” She shudders. “God only knows what kind of stuff is floating around in there now.
Families
use that hot tub, Lara Jean. There could be a family in there right now.”

Tears are spiking my eyes. “All we did was kiss. I don’t know why people would even say that.”

“Um, because Peter’s telling them you did?”

My whole body goes cold. It’s not true. There’s no way that’s true.

“All the guys think he’s a god ’cause he got sweet little
Lara Jean Covey to give it up in the hot tub. Just so you know, the only reason Peter even dated you was to make me jealous. His ego couldn’t take the fact that I dumped him for an older guy. He was
using
you. If he got free sex out of it, all the better. But he still came running whenever I called. That’s because he loves me. He will never love another girl as much as he loves me.” Whatever she sees in my face must please her, because she smiles. “Now that Blake and I are done . . . well, I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

I stand there mute and numb as she fluffs her hair in the mirror.

“But don’t worry. Now that you’re a slut, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of guys who’ll want to date you. For a night.”

I flee. I run out of the ladies’ room and out the doors, back onto the bus, and I cry.

PEOPLE ARE STARTING TO FILE
back on the bus. I can feel their eyes on me so I keep my head turned toward the window. I run my finger along the edge of the foggy glass. The window is cold, so it leaves a trail.

Chris slides in next to me. In a low voice she says, “Um, I just heard something cray-cray.”

Dully I say, “What did you hear? That Peter and I had sex in the hot tub last night?”

“Oh my God! Yeah! Are you okay?”

My chest feels really tight. If I get in a good breath, I am going to start crying again, I know it.

I close my eyes. “We didn’t have sex. Who told you that?”

“Charlie.”

Peter’s making his way down the aisle. He stops at our seat. “Hey, why didn’t you come back to the table? Is everything okay?” Peter is looming over the seat, looking at me with concerned eyes.

In a quiet voice I say, “Everybody’s saying how we had sex in the tub.”

Peter groans. “People need to mind their own business.” He doesn’t sound surprised, not at all.

“So you already knew?”

“Some of the guys were asking me about it this morning.”

“But . . . where did they even get that idea?” I feel like I’m going to be sick.

Peter shrugs. “I don’t know, maybe somebody saw us. What does it even matter? It’s not true.”

I screw my lips together tight. I can’t cry right now, because if I start, I’ll never be able to stop. I will cry the whole way home, and everyone will see, and I can’t have that. I fix my gaze somewhere over Peter’s shoulder.

“I don’t get it. Why are you mad at me?” He’s still confused.

People are starting to bottleneck behind Peter. They need to get to their seats. “People are waiting behind you,” I say.

Peter says, “Chris, can I have my seat?”

Chris looks at me and I shake my head.

“It’s my seat now, Kavinsky,” she says.

“Come on, Lara Jean,” Peter says, touching my shoulder.

I jerk away from him and his mouth drops open. People are looking at us and whispering and snickering. Peter glances over his shoulder, his face red. Then he finally makes his way down the aisle.

“Are you okay?” Chris asks.

I can feel my eyes welling up. “No. Not really.”

She sighs. “It’s not fair for the girl. Guys have it easy. I’m sure they were all congratulating him, pounding him on the back for being such a stud.”

Sniffling, I say, “Do you think he’s the one who told people?”

“Who knows?”

A tear trickles down to my cheek and Chris wipes it away with her sweater sleeve. “It might not have been him. But it doesn’t matter, Lara Jean, because even if he didn’t encourage all the talk, I doubt he discouraged it, if you know what I’m saying.”

I shake my head.

“What I’m saying is, I’m sure he denied it—with a shit-eating grin on his face. That’s how guys like Peter are. They love to look like the man, have all the other guys look up to them.” Bitterly she says, “They care more about their reputation than yours.” She shakes her head. “But what’s done is done. You’ve just gotta hold your head up and act like you don’t give a shit.”

I nod, but more tears leak out.

“I’m telling you, he isn’t worth it. Let Gen have him.” Chris tousles my hair. “What else can you do, kid?”

Genevieve comes on board last. I quickly straighten up and wipe my eyes and brace myself. But she doesn’t go directly to her seat. She stops at Bethy Morgan’s seat and whispers something in her ear. Bethy gasps and turns in her seat—and looks right at me.

Oh my God.

Chris and I watch as Genevieve goes from seat to seat.

“Bitch,” Chris breathes.

Tears burn my eyes. “I’m just gonna go to sleep now,” and I rest my head on Chris’s shoulder, and I cry. She keeps her arm tight around me.

MARGOT AND KITTY PICK ME
up from school. They ask me how the trip was, if I stayed on the bunny slope all day. I try to be upbeat; I even make up a story about how I went down a blue circle slope. Softly Margot asks, “Is everything okay?”

I falter. Margot always knows when I’m not telling the truth.

“Yeah. I’m just tired. Chris and I stayed up late talking.”

“Take a nap when we get home,” Margot advises.

My phone buzzes, and I look down at it. A text from Peter.

Can we talk?

I turn off my phone. “I think maybe I’ll just sleep right through Christmas break,” I say. Thank God and Jesus for Christmas break. At least I have ten days before I have to go back to school and face everyone. Maybe I’ll just never go back. Maybe I can convince Daddy to home school me.

* * *

When Daddy and Kitty go to bed, Margot and I wrap presents in the living room. Mid-wrap, Margot decides that we should have recital party the day after Christmas. I’d hoped
she’d forgotten all about her grand idea to have recital party, but Margot’s memory has always been killer. “It’ll be a post-Christmas, pre–New Year’s Eve party,” she says, tying a bow on one of Kitty’s presents from Daddy.

“It’s too last-minute,” I say, carefully cutting a sheet of rocking-horse wrapping paper. I’m being extra careful because I want to save a strip of it for a background page in Margot’s scrapbook, which is nearly done. “No one will come.”

“Yes they will! We haven’t had one in ages; tons of people used to come.” Margot gets up and starts pulling down Mommy’s old cookbooks and stacking them on the coffee table. “Don’t be a Grinch. I think this should be a tradition that we bring back for Kitty’s sake.”

I cut off a strip of fat green ribbon. Maybe this party will help me take my mind off things. “Find that Mediterranean chicken dish Mommy used to make. With the honey-yogurt dip.”

“Yes! And remember the caviar dip? People
love
the caviar dip. We have to make that, too. Should we do cheese straws or cheese puffs?”

“Cheese puffs,” I say. Margot’s so excited about it that even in my current state of self-pity, I can’t begrudge her.

She gets a pen and paper from the kitchen and starts writing things down. “So we said the chicken dish, caviar dip, cheese puffs, punch . . . We can bake some cookies or brownies. We’ll invite all the neighbors—Josh and his parents, the Shahs, Ms. Rothschild. Who of your friends do you want to invite? Chris?”

I shake my head. “Chris is visiting her relatives in Boca Raton.”

“What about Peter? He could bring his mom, and doesn’t he have a younger brother?” I can tell she is trying.

“Let’s leave off Peter,” I say.

Her forehead creases and she looks up from her list. “Did something happen on the ski trip?”

Too quickly I say, “No. Nothing happened.”

“Then why not? I want to get to know him better, Lara Jean.”

“I think he might be going out of town too.” I can tell Margot doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t press me further.

She sends the evites out that night, and right away there are five yeses. In the comments section Aunt D. (not our real aunt, but one of Mommy’s best friends) writes,
Margot, I can’t wait to hear you and dad sing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside!”
Another recital party tradition. Margot and Daddy sing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” and I am always commissioned to sing “Santa Baby.” I used to do it lying on top of the piano with my mom’s high heels on and our grandma’s fox stole. Not this year. No way.

When Margot tries to get me to go with her and Kitty to deliver our cookie baskets to the neighbors the next day, I beg off and say I’m tired. I go up to my room to put the finishing touches on Margot’s scrapbook and listen to only the slow songs from
Dirty Dancing,
and I keep checking my phone to see if Peter’s texted again. He hasn’t, but Josh has.

I heard what happened. Are you okay?

So even Josh knows? He’s not even in our grade. Does the whole school know?

I write back,
It isn’t true
, and he writes back,
You don’t have to tell me—I didn’t believe it for a second
, which makes me feel weepy.

He and Margot have hung out once since she’s been home, but they haven’t taken that DC trip Josh mentioned. It’s probably for the best if I go ahead and take the Josh-and-Margot page out of the scrapbook.

I stay up late just in case Peter texts again. I think to myself, if Peter calls or texts me tonight, I’ll know he’s thinking about me too and maybe I’ll forgive him. But he doesn’t text or call.

Around three a.m. I throw away Peter’s notes. I delete the picture of him from my phone; I delete his number. I think that if I just delete him enough, it will be like none of it ever happened and my heart won’t hurt so badly.

CHRISTMAS MORNING, KITTY WAKES UP
everyone while it is still dark out, which is her tradition, and Daddy makes waffles, which is his tradition. We only ever eat waffles on Christmas, because we all agree it’s too much trouble to lug the waffle iron out and clean it and store it back on the cabinet top shelf where we keep it. And anyway it makes waffles more of a special occasion this way.

We take turns opening presents to make it last longer. I give Margot her scarf, and the scrapbook, which she loves. She pores over every page, exclaiming over my handiwork, marveling over my font choices and paper scraps. Hugging it to her chest, she says, “This is the perfect gift,” and I feel like all the tension and bad feelings between us evaporate into nothingness. Margot’s gift to me is a pale pink cashmere sweater from Scotland. I try it on over my nightgown and it’s so soft and luxurious.

Kitty’s present from Margot is an art set with oil pastels and watercolors and special markers, which makes Kitty squeal like a piglet. In return Kitty gives her socks with monkeys on them. I give Kitty a new basket for her bike and the ant farm she asked for months ago, and Kitty gives me a book on knitting. “So you can get better,” she says.

The three of us pitched in for Daddy’s present—a thick
Scandinavian sweater that makes him look like an ice fisherman. It’s a little too big, but Daddy insists he likes it that way. He gives Margot a fancy new e-reader, Kitty a bike helmet with her name on it—Katherine, not Kitty—and me a gift certificate to Linden & White. “I wanted to get you that locket necklace you’re always looking at, but it was gone,” he says. “But I bet you’ll find something else you like just as much.” I jump up and throw my arms around him. I feel like I could cry.

Santa, aka Daddy, brings silly gifts like sacks of coal and water guns with disappearing ink inside, and also practical things like athletic socks and printer ink and my favorite kind of pens—I guess Santa shops at Costco too.

When we’re done opening presents, I can tell Kitty is disappointed there is no puppy, but she doesn’t say anything. I pull her into my arms and whisper to her, “There’s always your birthday next month,” and she nods.

Daddy goes to see if the waffle iron is hot and the doorbell rings. “Kitty, could you get that?” he calls from the kitchen.

Kitty goes to the door, and seconds later we hear her high-pitched scream. Margot and I leap up and run to the door, and right there on the welcome mat is a basket with a biscuit-colored puppy in it and a ribbon around its neck. We all start jumping up and down and screaming.

Kitty scoops the puppy up in her arms and runs into the living room with it, where Daddy stands grinning. “Daddy Daddy Daddy!” she squeals. “Thank you thank you thank you!”